


Connections and Omissions

by Kru



Series: of witchers and bards [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Geralt has emotional constipation, Jaskier is a ball of fluff and mischief, Kissing, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, So much kissing, Yennefer and Nenneke save the day, and, as always, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22512223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kru/pseuds/Kru
Summary: “An aphrodisiac? For humans? It’s not like we really need it,” he admits proudly, openly smiling and adds, “But it means that it does something more for witchers, right?”Geralt swears under his breath, visibly locking his jaw. He knows Jaskier too well as to expect he’ll leave the subject easily.“It works like a truth serum,” he grinds through his teeth and instantly knows that this is going to cost him his sanity because Jaskier bursts into a delightful but also devilish laugh.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: of witchers and bards [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626238
Comments: 266
Kudos: 5245
Collections: Best Geralt, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development, Read





	1. And the story is this...

**Author's Note:**

> So I planned to write normal, proper "5 times Geralt and Jaskier had sex", but as always I did the exact opposite.... I hope you'll enjoy ;)
> 
> You can read this as a separate story but it's even better if your read this one after it - [Until He Came Along](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188477)
> 
> Bated by truly amazing [locktea](https://locktea.tumblr.com/)
> 
> PS. For some (not so) strange reason I imagine Valdo Marx with Armie Hammer's face and body. You’re welcome xd

Most of the time Geralt doesn’t allow himself to think that destiny has anything to do with what is happening in his life. For him, this kind of belief is too vague and too broad for interpretation. He has lived through too much and he has seen too many things to start having faith in some omniscient powers that lead every life into a resolution. This kind of thinking? It’s for humans who need to think that there is something more waiting for them someday. It’s a fairytale that parents tell their children, creating for them a mirage of meaning and purpose. So no, it isn’t destiny that marks his steps. He’s neither a human nor a child.

***

He and Jaskier have been on the road for the last three days and there hasn’t been the simplest task that can pay a coin for far more than that. Everything seems to be withdrawing. Animals, people, and monsters. And even though the days are still warm, some nights Geralt can already feel the smell of frost in the air and he knows that it’s a matter of weeks before the first snow will appear in Redania. This might force him to go to Kaer Morhen, spending the winter there, but for now, he doesn’t want to think about it.

He sits at the edge of a small glade and cleans the sword’s blade in the rhythm of Jaskier’s voice that comes and goes, giving him some indication as to where the man wanders. The bard tries new rhymes he probably learned in Oxenfurt before they left, the witcher thinks as he swiftly looks up at his companion. Other sounds are muted or at least he tries to filter them so only at the very end of his subconscious Geralt distinguishes delicate songs of night birds and the hum of wind in treetops. Jaskier’s voice is over them but only lightly and sometimes it even merges, creating a lullaby that makes Geralt calm.

And because times like these are the rarest in his life, even if their future doesn’t present itself with an opportunity for a decent meal or a proper bed, he can’t bring himself to care. It’s a strange, forgotten sensation, but it grows and expands in his chest with every passing moment.

He breathes in deeply, trying to not get lost too much in this almost foreign feeling and catches the aroma of flowers spread around them. It’s that infused with Jaskier’s scent, the dirt from the road, his sweat, and lavender from his favorite soap mixed with something that Geralt identifies as contentment and a very delicate hint of frustration. Only this and nothing more. No fear, no worries, and no resentment Geralt can usually pick up on other people.

All that is carried to him by air that still radiates with reminiscences of the sun. It hid behind a mountains’ outline only minutes ago, but the warmth is still there. Geralt can see its last streams painting the sky with an oscillation of pinks and purples.

“Isn’t this glorious?” he hears Jaskier calling from the other side of the glade, looking at the sky like he can read Geralt’s mind. “I could write a ballad about it. What do you think, Geralt? Hum? I could tell the world how the greatest hero of the Continent starved himself to death because he refused to kill a deer and only the purple empyrean was there to see his perseverance.”

The witcher doesn’t bother to answer, the bard is too far away, but he smiles barely visible to himself.

“Of course, I’ll be there to witness it too,” Jaskier continues mumbling words as he bends to pick another herb with an exaggerated tug but Geralt can hear him anyway. “Although I will most definitely follow in death soon after. That will be my end, starving but at least enclosed by beauty.”

“A few days of a plant-based diet will only improve your looks,” Geralt finally says, standing up to sheath his swords.

Jaskier joins him at the fire, sitting heavily on the ground.

“Are you implying that I’m chunky? Or has hunger messed with your senses? I bet it’s the latter because I know for a fact that no one has ever complained about my physique or stamina. Not to mention skills,” Jaskier says, looking at him darkly from under his brows as he selects and washes different roots, leaves, and herbs and throws them with too much force into boiling water. “You will see when you pass out mid-fight and get us both killed. Your last thought will be that perhaps Jaskier, the bard that you dismissed so many times, was right when he told you to abandon your damn code for one night!”

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt says calmly, “I told you many times, that-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jaskier interrupts irritated, “You don’t kill healthy animals out of season.” He mimics Geralt, changing his smooth tenor to a lower tone. “But we aren’t like Roach. We can’t live off grass only. Even if we managed to find a glade with such a splendid variety,” he adds sarcastically.

The mentioned horse raises its head and draws her ears forward, neighing quietly like she’s irritated by the comparison. Geralt runs his hand on the mare’s neck and her side to calm her and let her know that Jaskier means no offense.

“Fine,” he says finally because he knows that the bard is right, and they will have to broaden their diet eventually. “If we don’t come across a job that can pay in the next two days, we’ll go lower to Pontar and fish there.”

“It’s not perfect but I’ll take it,” Jaskier mutters, stirring the mockery of soup with a stick.

“No one’s holding you,” Geralt proposes, starting their old argument as he takes his place in front of the fire. “We don’t have to travel together.”

“And who is going to take care of documenting your achievements?” Jaskier asks, settling against a tree trunk. He takes his lute then and gently strokes the instrument as he says, “Who are you to deny your eager fans the possibility to live your life through my ballads?”

“The subject of said ballads?” The witcher answers flatly.

Jaskier only waves it off indicating that this is the most irrelevant point in this discussion.

“You would be miserable without me,” he points out and plays a melody he sang when he picked their dinner.

Geralt wants to argue about that out of habit and because he likes to do it with Jaskier, but the bard starts to work on his next song and the witcher is caught by the view in front of him. The man’s long fingers dance on strings as fast and as capable as Geralt’s hands wield the sword. It’s a spectacle in itself but then comes the voice. Jaskier doesn’t sing loud, it’s barely there and closer to a murmur, but he’s able to charm the witcher on the spot.

He thinks that he might be getting old if suddenly he’s this sentimental. Or maybe it’s the atmosphere of the evening that suddenly makes him perceive so much. Geralt knows that people think witchers don’t have feelings but it’s just a tale they have been told over and over again for ages to help his guild in contract negotiations. Witchers do feel. Maybe not always, maybe not in the same way as humans but they do. Sometimes it’s more like a known scent, a taste or a note in someone’s voice, but Geralt knows exactly when and how he feels towards people.

And he has never thought about it before but what he feels for Jaskier is complicated. It’s nothing like what he has for Yennefer and it’s not even remotely close to what he feels for Triss. In those relationships, his standing is pretty solid. With the former, he knows that he’ll never be enough and with the latter, she knows she’ll always be too much. Even though they’ll always be present in his life, it’s still too little to make it last. They ask from him too many things he can't or doesn’t want to give. But with Jaskier it’s different.

Jaskier doesn’t want anything from Geralt. And yet here they are. Constantly going back to each other. Constantly choosing each other's company. Constantly finding each other.

Geralt observes the bard as he pulls the strings for a try, checking again how the melody sounds. Then he stops and scribes on a piece of paper. He thinks for a moment, tapping the kohl against his lips and adds a few more words. The bard looks back at Geralt and smiles satisfied with the result and then goes back to his lute.

Just like that, the witcher realizes the way Jaskier’s long fingers caress the instrument or how his gentle voice breaks and rises on particular words. And he wonders how those long fingers would feel on him. How would his touch be? Delicate and afraid of another man’s body? How he would sound when Geralt takes his body? And how would his kiss taste? Undecided and surprised that Geralt did it? How would he smell after all night together? Would he smell also like Geralt himself?

There are also some things the witcher doesn’t have to wonder about. Some things he knows. Things like how soft Jaskier’s skin is, how he radiates with warmth, how he can cling to Geralt’s body for protection, appearing vulnerable and gentle.

He learned all those things many years ago when they slept on one bedspread. He woke up with Jaskier in his arms, his finger wandering aimlessly on the other man’s skin, on the small of his back uncovered by rolled up clothes. He woke up and made sure to never do that again. Still, he collected these memories and sensations, covered them with guilt and shame and lust, and buried them deep inside, like all the things he knows he can’t have.

The only part of this that he allows himself to remember is the smell. It’s fascinating and unchanging from the first moment they have met. Jaskier smells like lavender and rosemary. He smells like the sun at the height of the day. He smells like joy and carelessness. And what is more important, when he’s with Geralt he doesn’t smell like fear. Just like now.

The witcher flares his nostrils trying to catch more of Jaskier’s scent and the familiarity hits him. It’s sometimes everything that he misses when they are apart. It’s everything that he wants. The lavender and rosemary are there. Lavender, rosemary… and something more. Something unexpected.

Geralt suddenly sits straight and tries to catch the smell, breathing in deeply. Jaskier stops playing immediately, looking at the witcher alarmed and surprised.

“What’s going on Geralt?” he asks. “Come on, talk to me.”

“The smell,” the witcher growls looking at the cooking soup. “What’s in there?”

Jaskier only shrugs and puts down the instrument to bend over the boiling decoction and sniff it.

“The usual,” he confesses lightly. “And whatever I could find. Some herbs, parsley roots, carrots,” he adds, holding up one of the remaining plants from the ground near the fire.

Geralt stretches to snap the root from bard’s hands and breathe in deeply.

“Jaskier,” he huffs irritated. “It’s not parsley. It’s maca.”

“And? What’s the difference?”

“It’s–” Geralt start but then suddenly shuts his mouth in a thin line, sitting back. “Nevermind,” he cuts, turning his face away from the bard.

Now he knows where all those thoughts came from. For a moment he thought it was all his fault. He thought that he’s an old sentiment fool who got carried away by the charm of a peaceful evening. It was the damn root and its aroma. But then again, the root only made his mind calm enough to bring back all his buried needs and desires. It didn’t create them. They were all there, safely tucked inside the deepest part of his head and happily forgotten. Until now. Until Jaskier accidentally put the damn maca into their food. The only upside of the situation was that he didn’t eat it. It could go catastrophic if the bard could drag from him any truths. Catastrophic for Geralt, of course. 

“Come on, Geralt,” Jaskier still insists, clearly interested. “What’s that? What’s the difference and why are you so strange suddenly?”

The witcher contemplates for a moment his options but he knows there is no running away from Jaskier’s questions when the bard puts his heart into an interrogation. And he’s stubborn like a herd of mules.

“For humans, it’s an alleged aphrodisiac.” Geralt goes for a half-truth. “But I’ve never seen its real effect so don’t get excited.”

He glances at Jaskier to check if he bought it, but he only sees how amusement spreads on the man’s face.

“An aphrodisiac? For humans? It’s not like we really need it,” he admits proudly, openly smiling and adds, “But it means that it does something more for witchers, right?”

Geralt swears under his breath, visibly locking his jaw. He knows Jaskier too well as to expect he’ll leave the subject easily.

“It works like a truth serum,” he grinds through his teeth and instantly knows that this is going to cost him his sanity because Jaskier bursts into a delightful but also devilish laugh.

“Can I,” he starts still laughing. “Can I ask you anything and you have to answer?”

“I didn’t drink it, didn’t I?”

“But it affected you,” Jaskier assumes quickly and correctly. “If it didn’t, you wouldn’t hold out on the effects so long, would you?”

“Dammit, leave it Jaskier,” Geralt mutters, closing his eyes and trying to count to ten backward to calm down and not to tell too much but he reaches seven and bursts, “Fuck. Yes.”

Jaskier laughs even harder and the delight in his voice is almost infectious. And for a moment Geralt still thinks that Jaskier will use this situation but then he gives him one of those tender glances. It’s one of those that made Geralt trust his companion from the very first day of their encounter. The one that’s honest and caring.

“It only means I have our dinner to myself,” the bard tells him finally.

Taking his lute from the ground, he strokes the strings and starts to sing the song he had been working on before:

_“You’re safe with me_

_My love._

_I’m here._

_I’m always here._

_I’ve always been_

_For you._

_You’re safe with me_

_My love._

_Even if_

_You don’t know._

_Even if you’re gone_

_Tomorrow.”_

***

Much to Jaskier’s delight, they came across a job the day after that memorable night in the woods. It was a big Endrega that terrorized two nearby villages. Killing it gave them enough money to sleep and eat in decent inns while Jaskier’s song about it lowered prices and gave Geralt even more things to do. They’ve spent almost two months like that, traveling from town to town, mostly trying to escape winter. It finally caught up to them in Maribor where they had ended up in an acceptable room in an establishment with even more acceptable food.

Geralt sits in the corner of the main hall, sipping weak beer for the second night in a row. He feels that the owner mixes it with water, but then again, who isn’t doing that? The witcher looks above the mug’s rim on his companion. Just like Geralt builds up his evening drinking habit, Jaskier works on his – singing his lungs out to a huge crowd that loves him. He’s in his element, standing on a centrally situated table, playing the lute, smiling, flirting and accepting one applause after another. Coins are falling on him like rain and the bard ozonates pure happiness. The city is big enough for a new audience every night. They can do this the whole winter, Geralt thinks with a small smile that he hides behind the mug when his eyes meet Jaskier’s gaze from across the room.

The bard sings about their adventures, about their time and travel together, and the witcher remembers how this annoyed him at the very beginning. He thought that those were only his adventures, only his time and his travel, and Jaskier is there to annoy him and drag him into more trouble than he was worth it. And then things changed. And then he fell in love.

Geralt snorts, putting the mug back with too much force. The beer spills on the table but no one cares. There is going to be more beer on the floor and tables when the night’s over. Most of it will be spilled in Jaskier’s honor.

He closes eyes and leans on the wall behind him. His head thumps against the wood and he hopes that maybe that’s the way to get rid of those stupid, persistent thoughts, but he doesn’t have that luck. Thoughts are there together with Jaskier’s voice. He sings the song he composed in the woods that night and Geralt partially blames it for his newfound dilemma. For someone who by a common belief shouldn’t feel, he has far too many of those problems. And it’s only partially the song because most of it comes from his brain and the fact that when he hangs on something, he can’t stop.

Blaming himself for Renfri’s death? Yeah, let’s do this for decades. Punishing himself for Triss’s unrequited feelings? Why not try to gratify this to her in any other possible way for years? Being not enough for Yennefer? Maybe he should just try to change and mold into someone she would accept for as long as he lives? Loving Jaskier and being sure he’s going to hurt him sooner or later? Let’s just be close to him for eternity and watch as he moves further and further away to finally find happiness with someone else? That’s exactly what Geralt plans.

At least before that night in the forest, he didn’t realize exactly what was going on with him. Even if he lived in a sweet ignorance, he lived a semi-happy life. Now it’s impossible. Now Geralt looks at Jaskier, so content and delightfully gleeful, and Geralt just wants to take him upstairs and fuck him senseless. Instead, he’ll have to watch how Jaskier charms another woman into his bed to fuck her senseless.

That night in the forest shifted something in him. Something that now he isn’t able to turn off. And if he isn’t able to turn it off, he knows he’ll have to move out of the situation. Running away from this kind of problem is his way anyway, he thinks and opens his eyes.

A young woman sits opposite. She rests her chin on a delicate hand, looking at him with full attention. She’s pretty, he needs to give her that. Untamed wavy blond hair cascades past her shoulders to barely cover her full breasts. They move up and down with every shallow breath. And she is blushing, but her blue gaze is daring, and he knows instantly what she wants from him before she opens her rosy lips.

“You look lonely,” she says.

“Maybe I look like that on purpose,” Geralt states more than asks.

He takes his forgotten mug but before he drinks, he smells it carefully to check if maybe someone tempered with it when he wasn’t looking. The girl observes his every move. Her expression changes just for a fraction of a moment and then goes for an attempt of an enticing smile. But Geralt’s senses are too quick and too thorough to not see her slight hesitation.

“You’re the White Wolf,” she says more intimate as she leans over the table to try again. “From the bard’s song, aren’t you?”

Geralt only hums into the cup, drinking it all. She leans even further, resting her breasts on the hardwood. In this way, they are fully exposed and even if he knows she’s doing it on purpose, he considers it for a moment. She could be a distraction, a few minutes of oblivion, but she wouldn’t be him.

“I know your father locked you up in a room the minute he got a witcher as his guest,” he starts instead, quickly closing off his instincts and he adds, “But don’t think for a minute I haven’t seen you sneaking around to take a peak yesterday.” The girl wants to interrupt him, but he continues firmly, “Do me a favor and tell your father to draw a bath in my room. And I don’t want anyone for a company, or I’ll tell him you’re not a virgin anymore and I’m the one who took your flower.”

“He’d throw you out for that!” The girl protests, quickly withdrawing.

“Well, there are other inns,” Geralt says with a small smile. “But your lovely bottom can survive only so much whacking, hum?”

The girl hisses like an irritated cat and stands up with so much force she knocks over the stool. Swearing under her breath in a way a young woman her age shouldn’t know, she shoves people aside to get to her father. Geralt realized the man behind the bar has been watching them from the moment they started talking but as the girl says something to him, he looks at the witcher openly, nodding barely visible. Somehow Geralt knows that it’s not a sign of understanding but rather the innkeeper thanking him for turning his daughter down.

That was one good deed for the day, he thinks as he nods back and then decides. He’ll take a proper bath, then he’ll have a good night of sleep and tomorrow he’ll travel to Kaer Morhen to spend winter there. As far from Jaskier as possible.

He looks at the bard and can’t help but smile. The man sings his most famous song for the third time and the audience seems to not lose interest at all. It’s going to be a long night for Jaskier but it’s for the better for Geralt. This way, he can sneak out and then fall asleep before the bard’s back in their room.

And he manages to do just that. When he comes upstairs the bath is ready. The steam makes the candlelight and fireplace’s radiance shy. He can still see perfectly but the soft light makes him calm, it helps to smooth his senses and encourages him to release all his tension. When he dips in, the hot water does the same. Its waves bouncing from the tub’s walls, come back to him and massage his stiffened body.

He doesn’t know how much time has past but slowly he goes into an almost meditative state when the outside world is just a forgotten sensation and all the impulses are completely suppressed by the illumination of the light, steam, and the sound of water.

This is the exact moment when everything goes to hell. The door opens with vigor and hits the wall. Geralt momentarily wakes up, splashing water everywhere when he swiftly turns to see Jaskier swing on the doorframe as he enters the room in a smooth movement to equally loudly slam the door behind him. All that is done with his usual flourish, of course.

“There you are,” he says triumphantly as he carefully puts the lute back on his bed and drops onto Geralt’s with a very prominent sigh.

Geralt breathes out slowly, trying to calm down again. He leans back but he doesn’t manage to find the previous comfortable position.

“What are you doing here?” He allows his tone to be harsh, feeling irritated. “Shouldn’t you entertain your fans?”

“Nah,” the bard waves it off and he stretches on the bed, laying down on one side so he can observe Geralt with his glossy eyes. “I need to allow others to earn their coin. They might not be as talented as me, but I like to give them a fair chance.”

Geralt only hums, watching Jaskier from under half-closed lids. “In other words, you drank too much and you started singing out of tune.”

“That and my throat is sore,” Jaskier agrees easily. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to speak tomorrow.”

“A disaster,” the witcher sums up not able to hold back a smile as he closes his eyes and slowly starts to drift off again.

Jaskier being here is not exactly what he aimed for, but he can still proceed with his plan. And in the same moment as he thinks that, he hears the rustling of fabric and a very quiet curse. For a second time, he rapidly opens eyes and straightens up, splashing water everywhere. He looks just in time to see how Jaskier pulls his pants down.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Geralt, don’t be dumb. It doesn’t suit you. What does it look like?” Jaskier laughs out loud. “I’m joining you in the bath!”

“The tub’s too small,” the witcher tries weakly. “You won’t fit.”

“It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen,” Jaskier says dismissively and he already steps in the water. “I don’t know what you did for the innkeeper to get a bath like that, but I approve.”

“Approve all you want but from afar,” Geralt complains when he’s forced to move and make room for another person.

Jaskier is right about the size of the vessel. He was also surprised by its extent. He suspected that the innkeeper rolled in his private one but Geralt never suspected that he’d end up sharing it with anyone. For sure not with the bard who takes the bigger space, leaning comfortably at the opposite side with his arms widespread and head rested back on the rim.

“Dear Melitele,” Jaskier moans, sighing deeply and as he slides lower into the water, he adds, “I live for moments like this.”

Geralt snorts and gives up trying not to touch the bard under the water. If he were a decent person, he would probably move as far as possible and tear his gaze away from the other man. After all, Jaskier is drunk. But Geralt is not decent. Right here is proof of that. In the way his legs touch Jaskier’s thighs, sometimes rubbing against the other man’s skin. In the way his hands, dipped in the water, move around but really, he allows himself to touch Jaskier’s ankles from time to time. And Geralt isn’t looking away. No. He looks at Jaskier. Even if he doesn’t have a right to do so, he takes all this view in and enjoys it while he can.

On the road, there is always a lot of chances to look. Geralt sometimes does it out of habit. First, he did it to make sure Jaskier was safe. Then, when the witcher realized that the bard can not only play and sing but also take care of himself, he looked at him to make sure that Jaskier was really with him. And of course, every time, every day, he realized that the man is simply beautiful. It’s so natural and so pure, that Geralt suspects Jaskier might have elven blood somewhere deep in his roots.

Still, all that seems somehow different from now because now they are completely alone and very close. They are closed off from the outside world not only by walls and doors by also by this strange light and steam that hangs in the room like a material veil. It arranges sounds, noises and smells to appear dull even for him, making it so much easier to focus on what is near him. And what’s near him is simply stunning. It’s a sum of regular lines of lean but strong muscles and soft, wet skin.

Jaskier still keeps his head on the tub’s rim, exposing the delicate skin of his neck. The witcher sees his pulse. It’s fast. It might be racing because water is hot, probably too hot for a human. Or maybe because Geralt’s hand found its place on the bard’s ankle? He holds it tight. His thumb makes slow, lazy circles on Jaskier’s skin without him even realizing how and when it happened.

“Fuck,” Geralt murmurs barely noticeable and takes his hand back when a delicate smile marks Jaskier’s lips.

At that, the bard suddenly holds his head up and looks at him confused.

“Why did you stop?”

“What did I stop?” The witcher tries and this time turns his gaze away.

“The thing,” Jaskier says, moving his feet so it pokes him in the thigh. “With the hand. It was nice.”

Geralt still doesn’t look at him. He just feels the burning sensation of shame deep in his guts. He senses that the other man observes him, so he just focuses on the flames dancing at the fireplace. He hopes that if he doesn’t answer, Jaskier would give up and leave the subject. But like with the Maca, like with everything else, the bard just finds his way.

“You know what,” he says and suddenly moves. “My hair needs a wash.”

“It doesn’t,” Geralt says firmly in protest and moves back, trying to stand up when Jaskier turns back.

“Oh, be quiet,” the bard shushes him bluntly and he maneuvers in the water.

The witcher wants to stop him but suddenly he isn’t able to make any move because the other man manages to sit in between his thighs. For a few moments Geralt can’t even decide what to do with his hands as he holds them up, all frozen by the rapid burst of new sensations that hit his senses.

Jaskier isn’t leaning back but it’s enough for the witcher to have him like that. The Bard’s sides touch the insides of his loins, slick in the water. His arms are casually resting on Geralt’s bended knees and his back arches in an unspoken demand. And Geralt feels that all his power to refuse is taken away from him by his needs. He feels like he’s under the influence of one of his potions, reduced only to take, feel and perceive. And, like being under their influence, he gives in. He knows he can’t fight it. Not now. Later he can drown himself in guilt and regret but now he wants, and he has to have it.

He reaches for the soap mechanically. Lathering his hands, he sits up to have better access and to be closer. He feels everything now. Every single sensation. Every single detail. The water is still incredibly hot. The soap is oily between his fingers. The wood of the tub is rough against his skin when he moves. Every breath that goes in and out of his lungs. And finally, a first touch.

Geralt touches the other man’s back just above the waterline. First, he does it only with his fingertips. Light. Almost there. Jaskier’s skin here is smoother than he remembered. It’s heated and slick. When he presses the whole palm to it, Jaskier slightly jumps. It’s barely perceptible, but his heightened senses pick on it immediately. And he likes this reaction. It’s not fear. It’s not surprise. It’s something else. Something new that he still can’t identify because the smell of it is completely new on Jaskier.

Still it makes Geralt smile. He wants to see and feel more. And he wants it slowly. So, he adds another hand. He uses the soap to make the trail up Jaskier’s back smooth. He knows that his palms are rough from decades spent holding a sword rather than someone else’s body. And in some irrational way, at this moment Geralt doesn’t want for the bard to sense that. He doesn’t want for him to remember that those hands that now dig deeper into his back muscles are mostly used for killing.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter for Jaskier? He just moans Geralt’s name and arches under his touch. He’s liquid and languid under the witcher's hands. Jaskier’s fingertips dig into Geralt’s shins when his fingers move up and suddenly slip into the bard’s hair.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier only manages to mutter when Geralt starts to slowly but persistently move his fingertips throughout the bard’s strands. “I need to bath with you more often,” he adds weakly, moving even closer.

“Maybe you should,” Geralt whispers back when he rests his chin on Jaskier's shoulder and allows the bard to lean his head on his arm.

His back hits Geralt’s chest. His hands move from witcher’s shins to under his thighs. Finger dig deep into his muscles and Geralt feels an overwhelming wave of want and need. His cock is painfully hard now, throbbing against Jaskier’s lower back as he leaves his hair, moves even closer and lets his hands wander on the other man’s chest, lower and lower.

It’s at this exact moment when Geralt hears something alarming. He stops moving but holds his head up and locates the sound. Jaskier is surprised. He tries to look back but the witcher holds him tighter to silently warn him.

When the sound repeats even Jaskier can hear it. It’s a flutter of wings, gentle but distinguished. And it comes from the direction of the window where Geralt can see a small, black kestrel cleaning its quills.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks when the witcher holds his hand up and whistles shortly but high.

Immediately the bird flies from the window’s frame onto his finger. He chirps a few times, turning its head and stepping from one foot to the other.

“It’s a message,” Geralt only says when he sees tiny roll of paper tied to the kestrel’s foot.

The witcher moves back from Jaskier momentarily. Suddenly the water feels cold. He feels cold. He feels like he just woke up from a dream and resurfaced to a brutal and hard reality. It’s the same sensation that he has when he comes down from a high when he can think clearly. When he feels more human than monster again.

When he takes the scroll the bird momentarily flies up and shoots through the window, merging with the night sky. If not for the paper in his still wet hand, he wouldn’t believe that the kestrel was here.

“It’s from her,” Jaskier says quietly.

He also runs from Geralt to the other end of the tub. He doesn’t turn back. Instead, he reaches for the sheets left for Geralt to dry and stands up. He wraps himself tightly, observing as the witcher opens the massage and reads one sentence.

It's from her, Geralt thinks. Yennefer gave him a solution as always right on time. It’s up to him whatever he takes it, but it’s right there. Easy. Accessible. A back door to run away through.

“She needs you,” Jaskier states more than asks when Geralt looks up at him.

He looks cold. The sheet is soaking wet. Water still drips from Jaskier’s hair. He knows how it feels now under his fingertips. He knows what could happen if the kestrel didn’t come. Geralt would use Jaskier like he uses everyone else. For a moment he sees it clearly and he even wants it. But Jaskier can’t want the same. Jaskier can’t want him. How could he? Geralt is a witcher. A monster. An abomination. What happened in the bath was a doing of his want and Jaskier’s drunkenness.

He looks down at the scroll and lets it dissolve in the water, deciding quickly, “Yes, she needs me.”

***

When Geralt reached Temple of Melitele he learned Yennefer was already gone. He had spent two weeks riding in snow and blizzard only to get confirmation that the message he got was exactly what he suspected it to be – an escape. The sorceress never meant to meet him. She never needed him. That was usual. The unusual thing was that the message came in the exact moment he needed it. But did he really?

He’d been dwelling on that thought almost a month. Well, not only on this particular one, but it was among other, more persistent thoughts that have kept circling in his mind. For almost four weeks he has been wandering the temple, moving from one corner to another, trying not to interrupt the temple’s winter life. For all this time he tries to think that what he did was right and with each passing day he has been less and less sure if it's true.

And there was also the longing. He reeked of it. He missed him. He missed him to the core of his soul. Before, when their roads split, he was sure that they intervene again sooner than later. It was a given. It was something that helped him carry on. Now, he doesn’t think he has a person to go back to. How can he? He not only left Jaskier for her again, and he is sure the bard sees it in this way, but Geralt also left their room like a traitor, under the cover of the night, when the other man was still asleep, not saying a word of goodbye or reassurance that he will be back.

No. Jaskier will never forgive him. It’s the last straw. He was sure of it. Again, he destroyed a life. Maybe it’s not the same as what happened in Blaviken but the effect is the same. And the irony is that this time he stepped back to try not make the same mistake again, and yet he did. He thinks as he sits in the great hall on the windowsill and looks at the snow slowly falling, hitting the stone and disappears.

“Dear Melitele,” he hears an exaggerated sigh behind. He doesn’t turn, knowing exactly who it is as the next words follow, “It’s worse and worse with each passing day.”

Nenneke’s steps are light on the stone floor as he comes closer. The priestess sits on the other side of the windowsill, sighing again as she looks at him. He sees her only at the corner of his vision, but he can imagine what her face expresses.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you like this for–” she suddenly stops and adds surprised, “I have never seen you like this. Period.”

Geralt snorts and manages to smile.

“You’re panicking,” he concludes, toiling for a dismissive tone.

“I know a broken heart when I see one,” she announces and that makes him meet her eyes.

She is genuinely worried but Geralt still raises an eyebrow in a silent question, looking at her with displeasure. It’s not directed at her. It could never be. It’s her words that cause his resentment.

“Oh, I know, I know… You don’t have a heart,” she reads him correctly. “I think only you believe that. While you should already come to an understanding that I can see through your bullshit, and I know that when you came here, you have been running away; I know from what you run. What’s beyond me is what you see in him, but this is not an interest of mine. You are like water and stone, and that might be good and bad, but you miss him, and you feel guilty about leaving him, so I also know that you love him.”

“Nenneke, please,” Geralt says weakly, making a move to leave.

The woman is faster. She catches his arm and stops him.

“I have been trying to talk to you for four weeks now,” she says firmly. “But I thought I don’t want to kick a dog that has already been beaten. Still, this must end.”

“There is nothing–” he starts but his voice breaks.

She uses this occasion and continues, “He isn’t like Yennefer. Or any of your magical friends for that matter. He’s a human. And humans love differently. They love deeper. More rapid. And you know why that is? Because they have less time. So, they also forgive faster. And what I am sure of is that he must love you if he followed you for all those years. How else he can stand a boring and brooding mutant with emotional constipation?”

This time Geralt smiles easier. He covers Nenneke’s hand that is still holding his arm with his own. As always there is a particular warmth that her skin emits, a special gentleness. It spreads from her fingers holding him tight and extents through his arm, shoulders and to the rest of his body as he turns again to look at the white view outside.

“The weather is getting better,” he says.

“Yes,” she agrees also smiling as she reveals, “And I heard Jaskier is in Cidaris. His latest song about the White Wolf particularly piqued the interest of the court. Who knows, maybe he’ll even replace Valdo Marx?”

“It’s almost three weeks ride in this weather.”

“Good thing Roach is well-rested then,” she concludes with an even brighter smile.

***

“Give her plenty of carrots,” Geralt says as he puts a few extra coins into the innkeeper's hand and pats Roach’s neck.

The man nods vigorously, looking like he would do as the witcher demands even without extra payment. Geralt wonders if it’s because he heard Jaskier’s songs and he respects him or maybe he’s even more afraid. It’s hard to smell it off of him through the layers of dirt.

“Will you rest as well, m-my lord?”

It’s the respect then, Geralt thinks and he knows that at least his horse will get good care. She deserves it after two weeks of a murderous ride to Cidaris and beating their last record.

“No,” he finally answers, smoothing his hand on Roach’s back last time and he pulls on the hood of his cloak. “Tell me where I can find Jaskier, the bard that’s visiting your city.”

“The one that sings songs about you?” The innkeeper confirms and when the witcher nods shortly he explains. “He has a duel with Mister Valdo. They said they need to finally solve their quarrel about who is a better singer and so they planned to meet at the Grand Inn on the main market square when the sun goes down.”

“Idiot,” Geralt snaps to himself and adds quickly, “Not you. Point me the main market.”

“Two times left and then right,” the man answers quickly and moves aside when the witcher storms out of the barn.

As Geralt quickly walks almost empty streets covered in mist coming from the sea and filled with the smell of smoke and seaweed, he hopes he is not too late and Jaskier didn’t let himself be killed. As far as he knows Valdo is not only fluent in pulling lute strings but also in wielding a sword. That and he’s twice Jaskier’s size.

The witcher can understand the rivalry between the two. They are both quite similar, both popular equally among audiences and women. They both have the same passion for the profession and wild imagination, but in his opinion, what makes the difference is a spark, something not fully perceptible, something like a gentleness that Jaskier’s ballads have and Valdo’s lack. So, because of that Geralt doesn’t understand why Jaskier feels inferior to Valdo and why he always tries to prove the other bard wrong. Why fight for Valdo’s approval? And what Geralt can’t understand the most is the view that unwinds in front of him when he enters the Grand Inn.

The tavern is filled to the brim. He can barely enter but when people see him at the door they start to move aside and for once he’s grateful for the opinion the throng holds about his kind. He merges with the crowd, slowly moving to the front. The room is bright, warm and stuffy. It’s also loud with cheer and Geralt needs a moment to adjust to the light and noise. Still, when he comes as close to the huge fireplace as possible and because he towers over almost everyone, he can finally see Jaskier. And Valdo. They play their lutes in unison and sound almost as one. The same goes for their voices. They sometimes meet to sing together, linking into a smooth tone, to then break apart to sing certain parts alone, making from the song something of a dialog. They sit on the top of the table so people can see them. They’re not touching but they’re close. Still, it doesn’t matter because their gazes meet in a way that means they do enjoy each other’s company in far more ways than just by singing together. And the song they sing is the one that Jaskier composed during their night shared in the forest. That night seems to Geralt like a different lifetime. Like it happened to different people. Because now what he feels - and he can truly feel it, not by smell, not by touch, but somewhere inside - is a burning pain of loss.

He wants to leave but he can’t. The crowd is too dense, so he stays there, and he just looks. He sees Jaskier’s body language, how he leans closer to Valdo, how he smiles when their voices join in a perfect, intuitive way and how his eyes express fulfilment and happiness. There was a time when Geralt had all that and he didn’t understand it. He had it but he had been blinded by his insecurities, prejudice, and opinions. He hears the words of the song and now he understands what they meant when Jaskier sang it to him for the first time. He was stunned by how many other voices there had been over the years, telling him what he doesn’t deserve, and can’t feel or care. And he thinks that between the two of them he was the idiot.

The witcher moves his gaze to Valdo. For a moment he studies his face. Valdo’s handsome, Geralt needs to give him that. He has those piercing blue eyes that agree with a perfect smile. And, for a human, he’s tall. Almost as tall and broad as Geralt but still not a match in a fight. And if this is what Jaskier wants now, it’s not up to him to question, he thinks looking back at the bard.

Jaskier sings the last lines of the song alone and he chooses this moment to tear his gaze away from his opponent. He looks at the crowd and guided by some cruel irony he immediately meets Geralt’s eyes. The witcher sees how his expression changes. His smile is gone for a fraction of a moment and when he recovers it doesn’t reach his eyes. His glance moves quickly through Geralt’s features and leaves them but the witcher can recognize that now the bard isn’t looking at anyone. He also hears how his voice changes its tune. It becomes tight, a little weak at the end of words. For others, probably even for Valdo, these are nuances that they even don’t catch. For him it means Jaskier is angry, maybe even sad and disappointed.

When he finishes, he puts the lute down in a wave of applause. His bow is graceful as always. And as always, he spares the women a few smiles.

“One more,” someone calls from the crowd and another person adds, “Sing about the White Wolf!”

“Dear friends,” Jaskier says with his hand to his heart. “I promise I will sing whatever you want but first I need a drink.”

There are some dissatisfied murmurs but as people see that Jaskier steps from the bench, they give up and start to disperse and go back to their tables.

“Don’t tell me you give up?” Valdo teases, joining the other bard.

Jaskier snorts, “Never.”

His eyes flick toward Geralt for a short time and this makes Valdo look in his direction. When he sees the witcher his features change momentarily. His smile disappears, replaced by something that resembles disgust. At least this is an attitude Geralt knows how to deal with.

“Well, well,” Valdo pronounces each word slowly as he approaches him. “The famous White Wolf himself honors us with his presence.”

“Hardly,” the witcher answers, lying easily as he glances at Jaskier, staying a little bit behind. “I’m just passing by and looking for a place to spend the night. This one is too crowded.”

“And not for the likes of you,” Valdo announces.

“No,” Geralt agrees and makes a move to leave when Jaskier’s voice stops him.

“Oh, no, no, no…” the bard suddenly says. “Not so fast! I-I mean, we have to talk. About stuff. Very important stuff,” he adds awkwardly, mouthing very quiet, “Out,” only for Geralt to hear.

The witcher can only give him a short, confused look before Jaskier pushes him in the direction of the door.

The bard follows closely, throwing at Valdo, “Sorry, Witchery matters! You can start the next round without me!”

Outside the air hits him with cold and the smell of the sea. In Cidaris winter looks completely different than in the East. It’s not that severe but still, the chill mixed with humidity pierces to the bone.

He sees that Jaskier is cold, but the bard pretends that it doesn’t bother him as he walks a few steps away from the tavern’s door. When he leans on one of the columns that hold massive oriels surrounding the main market, he looks at Geralt in a silent request to join him.

The witcher comes closer and stands by the other pillar, at the opposite side of the arch. There are at least a few dozen arches, encircling the square from three sides. In front of them, it’s an open, vast space that now is a sum of darkness and gloom, and only the sound of crashing waves suggests what this abyss might hide.

“So, you happen to pass by Cidaris,” Jaskier states more then asks, glancing at him from time to time. “And you had no idea I’m here?”

“No,” Geralt only answers, not taking his eyes off of a point on the black horizon but also not looking at it.

He hears how Jaskier snorts and whispers, “Bullshit.”

“Would it help you if I told you I came here for you?” the witcher says calmly, turning to face the bard.

He leans on the pillar behind him, letting it take on his weight as he feels his legs are weak when he waits for the answer.

Jaskier also faces him. He wraps his arms around his waist, shaking from the cold but Geralt knows better than to try to comfort him now. Instead, he waits for the words that he sees are building at the bard’s tongue.

“I waited for you,” he finally says after a long moment. “In Maribor. I waited for a month, but you never came back.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers and he moves because he can’t and doesn’t want to be that far, but the bard holds a hand to stop him.

“So, I lost any hope,” the bard continues, and he sounds weak as he adds, “Can you imagine? I lost hope. I lost the only thing that kept me going for all those years.”

Geralt is stunned. He expected to hear a lot worse. He expected insults. Everything but this. Everything but a clear indication he broke Jaskier’s faith in him.

“Tell me to leave,” he whispers at the barrier of sound, not able to give it more power as he feels overwhelming guilt when he looks at all the emotions passing Jaskier’s face. “And I will,” he adds and the bard laughs.

It’s a bitter laugh. It cuts Geralt wide open. It feels the same as when he pushed Renfri’s dagger into her throat. It feels the same as when he heard Triss’ helpless cry or when Yennefer made a decision in Aedd Gynvael.

“I don’t even deserve to be asked for forgiveness,” Jaskier finally says with a sad smile.

And Geralt suddenly thinks if this is that simple? If it comes down only to those words? Those words that never worked with Yennefer. But then again maybe Nenneke has been right all this time?

He comes closer. Jaskier finally allows him to be in his space. And he wants to say it all. He wants to ask him for forgiveness, for another chance, for hope in this, in them and the future. And Geralt opens his mouth and looks for the right expression and is about to say those three words when the tavern’s door open and Valdo shouts:

“Jaskier they chant your name!”

The witcher momentarily moves back and the moment is lost. And he thinks that it might be for the best because Jaskier is a human who forgives easily but Geralt is a monster and he’ll never give him what another human can. And when he looks at the bard, he sees that he understands.

“I’d never ask you to leave,” Jaskier adds in lieu of goodbye as he slips past him and disappears behind the inn’s door.

Geralt stays at the market for a long moment. He stops to feel the cold even if it encloses him with countless layers of humidity. Somehow it feels right as it matches exactly to what’s going on inside him. His heart seems to go into the same hibernating state, beating slower and slower. And he wonders if maybe one day it will stop entirely, and he’ll finally fully become the monster that everyone sees in him.

It’s exactly then when he hears it. He wakes up from this almost meditative state to see a short, fat man running towards him.

“Mister Witcher!” He shouts, barely able to take a proper breath. When he comes closer, Geralt sees that he’s completely red from the effort, sweat runs on his face but he manages to groan, “Mister Witcher! A disaster happened! It’s a blessing that you came to the town.”

“Speak slowly,” Geralt demands.

“My son,” he burst. “He was supposed to come back from Wizima and so I went to greet him at the gate and I found only this,” he says between tears and pushes into the witcher’s hands a blood-stained scarf. “It’s Manticore,” he adds, choking on tears.

“Lead to the gates,” the witcher only says.

Most of the time Geralt doesn’t allow himself to think that destiny has anything to do with what is happening in his life. For him, this kind of belief is too vague and too broad for interpretation. He has lived through too much and he has seen too many things to start having faith in some omniscient powers that lead every life into a resolution. This kind of thinking? It’s for humans who need to think that there is something more waiting for them someday. It’s a fairytale that parents tell their children, creating for them a mirage of meaning and purpose. So no, it isn’t destiny that marks his steps. He’s neither a human nor a child.

Still, when he follows the man who sees his presence as a blessing now but yesterday probably wanted to spit in his face, he thinks that maybe there is destiny after all. Because if it was not for all that, if not for all the actions he took over past months, he would never be here, he would never meet this man and he would never go out of the gates feeling a crushing loss in a place where his heart used to be. He would never face Manticore forgetting to forget that he still feels like a human being.

And when he faces it and learns that there is no one monster, but a whole horde of them, it’s already too late.

***

The first thought that comes to him is that he died, and this is the afterlife. This is the emptiness that he once spoke about with death herself. And as trivial as it might seem, when he’s there, hung in nothingness, he starts to believe. And when he almost does, he’s suddenly torn again to the surface of now.

He feels the warmth first. It’s spreading through his body from one side to the other, caressing him like waves. It’s pleasant and calming. He could stay like this forever, drown in this sensation, knowing he’s safe. But the warmth shifts and moves. Suddenly it holds him tighter and this is when the scent hits him. He knows this aroma so well. It’s lavender and rosemary. It’s how a midset of summer smells when everything is heated and ripe. He wants to hold on to it and so he closes his hands only to learn that they are full of something. He can touch and when he does, he feels silk, heated skin under his finger and one of his arms is trapped under an unidentified weight.

Surprised he wants to raise his eyelids. Bright light hits him, making him blind. He tries to block it, so he covers his eyes with the free hand, and this is the moment when the pain comes in. It rips through his body with the force of hundreds of daggers, starting at his shoulder and ending inside his chest. And now he knows. This is not the afterlife.

“It’s better,” a voice says somewhere near and he feels warm breath on his cheek as a whisper follows, “Because you’re here, alive, with me.”

He moves his face in that direction, and as his eyes slowly adjust to the light, he’s able to see the outlines of a face. And he knows that face. He knows those green eyes that look at him with worry, but they are also brightened by a smile. A smile that’s mostly a sum of mischief and charm but at this moment it’s an image of relief. He knows those lips that sing the most beautiful songs about him but now they can’t find words.

The bard lays at his side, spread along Geralt’s body. He’s the one that traps one of his arms. Geralt still holds his open palm on Jaskier’s back, aimlessly smoothing circles with his thumb at the naked skin uncovered by rolled up clothes. And one of the bard’s hands is slung over his waist, holding onto layers of bandages like he’s afraid that Geralt might run. But that’s impossible. He doesn’t want to run. Not anymore.

“Say something or the dramaturgy of this suspense will kill me,” Jaskier finally tells him, smiling hesitantly.

Even if his body hurts everywhere now, the witcher smiles back and brings the bard closer, crushing his frame against his side.

He looks up and sees he’s under a solid roof. He recognizes the ceiling ornaments from the main hall of the Grand Inn. They’re probably in Jaskier’s room.

“How long?” Geralt asks, sounding so hoarse he wonders if he has slept for years.

Jaskier reads his question correctly on the spot.

“You’ve slept for almost seven days. The court’s mage patched you up.”

The witcher only nods and taking in the surroundings, he questions further, “How did you find me?”

“The man that hired you,” Jaskier explains patiently, moving up to see Geralt’s face. “He stormed the Grand Inn and started shouting that the White Wolf went after a horde of Manticores at the main gates. Most of the guests of the establishment dismissed him, some ran to see your fight and…”

“And you?” the witcher interrupts as he looks back at the bard.

“And I was the first out of the door, running to help,” he admits and drops his gaze. Scrutinizing slowly the witcher’s body, he whispers, “When I came, I thought it was too late. Manticores were dead but in the middle of all those parts and bones and guts I found you, laying in a puddle of blood. And when I touched you…” Jaskier’s voice breaks and he closes his eyes.

He wants to carry on but every time he opens his lips nothing comes out. The hand that stayed on Geralt’s chest, folds into a fist. When Jaskier opens his eyes, Geralt sees that he’s trying to hold back tears. And the witcher isn’t able to stop himself anymore. He reaches for the other man’s face, cupping his cheek in his rough hand. He moves up and leans in. His face is so close he can drink the air from the other man’s lips.

“Forgive me,” he says and feels that those are the easiest words he has ever expressed.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Jaskier answers without hesitation, resting his forehead against Geralt’s.

The witcher hears how the bard’s heart skips. He sucks in air, still undecided, and then suddenly he presses his lips to his.

The kiss is light, and it ends as quickly as it began. Geralt finds himself following Jaskier’s lips as the man pulls back. Unsure of his reception, Jaskier checks for the witcher’s reaction. Geralt even sees a forming apology, but he doesn’t allow it to happen as he leans in closer again and catches Jaskier’s mouth, claiming it with need.

Momentarily he takes over the bard’s body. Geralt pushes him back into the pillows and licks in, tearing from Jaskier a surprised moan. And that’s it. That’s enough for him to forget about the pain. What he wants is only to hear more of those sounds. He wants to win over more of Jaskier's body. He wants to give him pleasure to erase any harm he might have caused in the past.

He also wants to explore, so, biting in one more time with hunger and need, he captures the bard’s hands on both sides of his head. Jaskier groans into the witcher’s lips, trying to release his wrists but at the same time, he kisses Geralt back with matching urgency.

“Dorregaray said,” Jaskier manages to say when Geralt leaves his lips with a few parting kisses and starts to slowly claim more and more of the bard’s skin.

His lips brush heated cheeks, pick along the side of the stubbled jaw to then bite on a soft earlobe as he murmurs, “What did he say?”

“He said you should–,” Jaskier starts again but then one of Geralt’s hands leaves his wrist and slips under his shirt and all words must vanish from the bard’s brain because he only whimpers, arching closer. “Mother o-of–” he bites on a curse as the witcher hides his face in the crook of his neck and inhales deeply.

His hand deliberately moves up, skillfully untidying strings of Jaskier’s shirt. He marks the bard’s skin with more soft kisses, winning inch after inch of newly exposed parts.

“You should rest,” Jaskier finally finishes and as both of his hands are free now, he tries to push the witcher off. “Geralt, you were nearly dead… What am I saying? You were dea-oh dear Melitele!”

Geralt takes a long lick from the bottom of his abdominals to one of his nipples to catch it in his mouth and suck gently. Jaskier’s hands that meant to stop him, now slip into his hair to guide him.

“Or you can do that,” the bard breathes in a shuttered breath as he gives up and melts under the witcher’s hands.

Geralt smiles into Jaskier’s skin, leaving the nipple to nuzzle again lower and lower until he’s stopped by the hem of the bard’s pants. He pauses only then, looking up to find the other man’s eyes.

“Have you finally found your reason?” Jaskier asks trying to sound serious but Geralt can hear his disappointment.

“Dorregaray doesn’t know shit about how witchers recover,” he says calmly. “But I want to make sure we want the same thing.”

“Geralt, it’s flattering that you think I’m still a virgin in this department, but I can assure you I have had my very fair share of expe–” Jaskier tells him but he isn’t able to finish because the witcher moves up and in one motion he leans in between the bard’s spread legs, reaches his lips and closes them in another demanding kiss.

This time he doesn’t stop when his hand reaches the breeches’ hem. He slips it in and feels that Jaskier is equally at the edge. He wraps his fingers around the length, moving them gently, just for a try when he hears strangled, “Fuck.”

“I’m glad we’re finally on the same page,” Geralt huffs out into Jaskier’s lips, staying very close.

“I’ve been on this page for longer than you,” Jaskier complains, too coherent for what the witcher’s doing to him.

“How long?” Geralt asks and takes this moment of Jaskier’s hesitation as an opportunity.

He bends and pulls bard’s pants down to swallow him up at the same time. And it feels good to finally have him like that. All to himself. All spread for him. To take and to give. To feel how he tastes and how he smells. To be able to tear from his lungs those delicious sounds of pleasure. To just completely rule over Jaskier’s body.

His own pain is gone now. It’s overtaken by boundless want. His whole existence is focused on Jaskier and his voice, smell and skin. And he takes and takes and feels that he isn’t going to have enough of it.

Never, he thinks as he feels the bard’s hands find their place in his hair. Jaskier caresses his face, mumbling now words that have no sense but are all about how he wants and loves. And Geralt takes him in one last time to finally taste Jaskier’s fulfilment on his tongue. And he hopes it’s not the last time today.

Later when they lie in an almost silent room, both sated and satisfied, Geralt listens to their synced breaths and can’t find a single thing that isn’t right with this moment.

He’s spread on Jaskier’s bare chest. As he wraps his arms around the bard’s waist, he has his ear pressed just above the other man’s heart, so he follows its steadying beats. Jaskier’s finger tangled in his hair play with the strands, aimlessly and gently move through them and caress his skin in a soothing, repetitive motion. His other hand traces old scars on his arm. Those that Jaskier doesn’t have to ask about because he saw how he got them. And their legs are tangled. They touch in every possible place. Their scents are mixed to the point he can’t distinguish where Jaskier’s began and his ends. He starts to slowly drift off into sleep when suddenly he remembers he didn’t get an answer to a question he asked hours ago.

“So how long have you been on this page,” Geralt murmurs, heating Jaskier’s skin with his breath.

The bard laughs shortly and quietly, answering. “Long.”

“Tell me.”

Jaskier’s finger stops in their trail as he whispers, “Years, decades maybe.”

Geralt only grunts an acknowledgment of this fact, wrapping his arms tighter around the other man. He sighs deeply, trying not to think about all that lost time as bard’s fingers go back to their rhythm.

“You know,” Jaskier breaks the silence this time. “I’ve never been with Valdo,” he says shakily and as Geralt moves his head up to meet bard’s eyes, he adds. “I mean, in bed. Like sleeping. Well, not sleeping. Because you might sleep with someone and then really sleep but ah! I didn’t have sex with him,” he finally bursts.

“I got it the first time,” the witcher murmurs but he can’t hold off his smile for long. “Why did you leave Maribor and come here? I thought you’d be comfortable there.”

“Ah, well,” Jaskier huffs out a long breath and suddenly he’s very interested in one of Geralt’s scars. He gently brushes it only with his fingertips and as he still isn’t looking at the witcher, he explains. “Yennefer met me there.”

“Yennefer? What the fuck did she want from you?”

“She gave me a piece of advice?” the bard says it like a proposition and he clearly is afraid of Geralt’s reaction as he closes his eyes in anticipation.

“Jaskier,” Geralt only hums with worry. “What did she tell you?”

“That if I want you to admit your feelings, I must make you jealous or I must almost die,” he tells him fast. “And that she can help with the latter.”

On that Geralt start to laugh. And he doesn’t know if it’s Jaskier’s hands that never stop touching him or his scent that is their own now, or the look in his eyes showing him that Geralt is the most important person to him. That he is still so scared to lose him. But he leans in further to kiss him again with a smile that still stretches his lips.

“What was that for?” Jaskier asks when the witcher moves back and lets him take a breath.

“It’s for you choosing to make me jealous,” Geralt only says and kisses him one more time.

***

No, Geralt doesn’t believe in destiny. And yet, sometimes even he has trouble to hold on to his conviction, or more often, the lack of it. It often happens when he brings back a memory of Vesemir and how he become a witcher. Or how he met Yennefer and bound their lives together by a single wish. Sometimes he feels like those things were meant to happen. And yet there are moments like this when results are dictated by a choice or a decision where he can clearly see that people are pressed into actions not by a greater power but by what they want or feel. So, instead of putting his existence into unknown hands, Geralt favors believing that each and every being endures in its life a series of accidents and coincidences, a series of connections and collisions and meets people who push and pull. And for him, that’s what makes a life.


	2. Until He Came Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (the ballad that Jaskier created during the course of this story)

_There was time_

_My life was pointless._

_There was time_

_All the roads ahead_

_Made no sense._

_And I felt lonely_

_And I felt lost_

_Until he came along_

_The man with_

_Heart of gold._

_And he said,_

_You’re safe with me_

_My love._

_I’m here._

_I’m always here._

_I’ve always been_

_For you._

_There was time_

_I thought I can’t feel._

_There was time_

_I left myself fall_

_In the deepest of the doubt._

_And I couldn’t move._

_And I couldn’t run._

_Until he came along_

_The man with_

_Gentle touch._

_And he said,_

_You’re safe with me_

_My love._

_Even if_

_You don’t know._

_Even if you’re gone_

_Tomorrow._

_There was time_

_I didn’t know._

_How to love?_

_How to go along?_

_How to carry on?_

_And I wanted it to end._

_And I wanted to disappear._

_Until he came along_

_The man with_

_Pitch black eyes._

_And he said,_

_You’re safe with me_

_My love._

_I’m here._

_I’m always here._

_I’ve always been_

_For you._

_There was time_

_When the world was_

_A cruel place_

_Of loss_

_Of misery_

_Of despair._

_And I couldn’t see._

_And I couldn’t find._

_Until he came along_

_The man with_

_Hair like snow._

_And he said,_

_You’re safe with me_

_My love._

_Even if_

_You don’t know._

_Even if you’re gone_

_Tomorrow._

_But all that is in the past._

_All that is gone._

_There is no_

_Heart of gold._

_There is no_

_Gentle touch._

_There is no_

_Pitch black eyes._

_There is no_

_Hair like snow._

_And yet_

_I can hear in the wind._

_I can see in the clouds._

_I can feel in the sun’s warmth._

_He is still with me._

_He is still so close._


	3. The Morning

Amazingly sweet and incredibly talented [Dagny Art](https://dagnyart.tumblr.com/post/615370980535173120/commission-for-dear-leeeeeex-happy-birthday) draw this for my story so I thought you would like to see how their morning when Geralt finally woke up in Cidaris (it's the last part so I'm adding this as a chapter as not to spoil the ending) looked like :)

I can't stop looking at it! It's just perfect ;___;

(And if you are in need of even more incredibly beautiful fanart go over Dagny's tumblr [here](https://dagnyart.tumblr.com/)!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in the days I did a few visualisations for my fics and I thought that maybe you will be interested in them here as well. Especially that this text gets a really huge, incredible and unimaginable milestone... One that I could have never dream to pass as an author here. And it's all thanks to you. You gave me back my confidence as an author after I suffered a horrible loss and struggled for many year to find my voice and strength to write.  
> I posted this work thinking that no one is going to like it and not many would read it. But you did even more! You loved it and so many of you prove this in giving me kudos and writing in the comments. And I started to believe again that I'm still able to create something that matters to people and causes emotions.
> 
> So thank you! Seriously, THANK YOU!
> 
> I cannot express how much I am grateful for all your hits, kudos and comments. You are the best!!!

(And stay tuned! There is still more to come to this story :))


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